


SoSnI’oy is Coming

by Ariquel, Byrcca



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: 25 Days of Voyager, Children, F/M, Fluff With Teeth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:42:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28176348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariquel/pseuds/Ariquel, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Byrcca/pseuds/Byrcca
Summary: Four years after their return from the Delta Quadrant, B’Elanna’s heart—and her home—are full. She’s teaching at the Academy while Tom stays home to care for their two children. She’s embraced her Klingon heritage, sort of, and she even gets along with her mother, mostly. As long as she’s half a quadrant away...
Relationships: Tom Paris/B'Elanna Torres
Comments: 11
Kudos: 23
Collections: 25 Days of Voyager (2020 Version)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> We were nudged into doing this for 25 Days of Voyager, but my main motivation was to give Ariquel a platform for her story idea. I’ve mentioned Starbase 234 before, in one of my ‘Ficgust’ August fic prompts. 
> 
> ~ Byrcca.
> 
> I would just like to say 10,000 thank yous to Byrcca for getting this story idea out of my head, making it infinitely better in the process, and dealing with all of the posting hassles. It was an absolute blast to write with you :). 
> 
> ~Ariquel

***

“My mother is wha-aat?!” Her voice rose in volume as she split the last word into two syllables. She felt her eyes go round. 

“She’s on her way,” Tom replied. 

He sounded so reasonable… “Here?”

Tom’s eyebrow climbed toward his rapidly receding hairline. “No,” he deadpanned, “Talax. Of course here.” His nose scrunched as he frowned at her reaction to his news.

She was later arriving home than she’d intended, and the approaching twilight had brought a stiff, damp breeze along with the impending dark, making the single-digit temperature feel colder than it was. As soon as she’d walked through the back door of the house into the kitchen, the warm, rich scent of cookies baking had enveloped her. Since her part-time post as a guest lecturer at the Academy had ballooned into a part-time teaching job, Tom had taken to his position of House Husband and Full Time Daddy like a _boqrat_ to a burrow, and he and the girls were usually baking or cooking something daily. She wondered why they even bothered to have a replicator. 

He had heard her arrive and turned to greet her with a smile. He was wearing his **KISS THE COOK** baker’s apron, and had a spatula in one hand and Ella on his opposite hip. Her lips and chin were smeared with melted chocolate, and her chubby cheeks were distended as she attempted to shove an entire cookie into her mouth. They made a charming picture, and after her day filled with faculty meetings, a midterm review, and her TA sobbing in her office, she was more than glad to be home. Tom’s welcoming smile, and the faint taste of chocolate on his lips as he’d kissed her hello, had lit a warmth in her belly and sent her thoughts travelling to later this evening, once the girls were in bed. His next words, _your mother is coming_ , had frozen her in the act of placing her satchel on a dining chair. 

“What?” he asked. “You two get along great now.” 

B’Elanna snorted. “ _You two_ get along great. Every time she’s here, she quizzes me about something. I feel like I’m a cadet again, taking an oral exam.”

“You’re exaggerating. She’s very proud of you. She said so when we were talking earlier.” He turned back to the counter and finished lifting the hot cookies onto a cooling rack. “She thinks you’re wonderful, you know,” he said over his shoulder.

“She think’s _you’re_ wonderful. She thinks I’m not _properly instructing my children in the teachings of qeylIS_. Down, Lonnie.” She shooed the cat off of the table with a wave of her hand. “Everytime I talk to her, she wants to know if I’ve told Miri one legend or another.” 

Tom shrugged. “We’ll just point out the shrine in the living room.” 

“Mamma!” 

Ella chose that moment to launch herself out of her father’s arms and toward her mother, and B’Elanna barely let go of her bag in time to catch the flying toddler. “Whoa,” she gasped. 

Ella’s huge blue eyes locked with hers. “Mamma eat it,” she demanded, shoving her toddler-spit sodden cookie against B’Elanna’s lips. 

She took a small nibble then pulled Ella’s hand down. “Mmmmm, it’s delicious.”

“Dissis,” Ella agreed. She squirmed and kicked against her mother’s embrace until B’Elanna bent down and set her on her feet, then she ran toward the doorway to the living room, chasing the cat out of the room. The girls were thick as thieves, and both Tom and B’Elanna were relieved when Miral, more than two years older than her little sister, didn’t appear to be jealous of the robust toddler or the attention she demanded. 

Tom set the dirty baking sheet in the sink and pulled his wife into a loose embrace. “What is it?” he asked. 

“When will she get here?”

Tom shrugged. “She called from Starbase 234.”

“What’s she doing way out there?” B’Elanna cut in. “There has to be a more direct route from Boreth.” 

“Probably?” Tom shrugged. “Maybe her ship was hugging the DMZ?” he offered. Starbase 234 was a Federation base situated just inside the Alpha Quadrant, on the edge of Klingon space. “She’s got a berth on the _Halo_ ,” he continued. “They’re leaving tomorrow and taking her as far as Utopia Planitia. She’ll have to catch a transport from there, so I’d say you have a week or so to mentally prepare yourself.” The last was said with a hint of mocking in his tone and B’Elanna thumped him on the chest with her fist. “Ow,” Tom groaned. “ _Kiss_ the cook, remember? Not _punch_.”

“This isn’t funny,” B’Elanna’s voice rose again and she deliberately quieted so she wouldn’t alarm the children. “Do you have any idea how many papers I’ll have to grade next week? Not to mention the labs. And where is she supposed to sleep?”

“She can bunk in with Miri and we’ll bring Ella in with us.” 

It wasn’t the response she’d been hoping for. She’d hoped he would mention a hotel, or an apartment, somewhere. “You don’t think she’ll stay ‘til the new year, do you?” 

“I doubt it; that’s a couple of months away.” 

“Exactly,” she muttered. “Did you tell the girls?”

“They were right here when she called; they spoke to her,” he said, confirming one of her fears. “Miri can’t wait to see her again, and Ella is excited because Miri is.” He placed a soft kiss on her mouth then peered at her. “What are you really worried about?”

“That…” B’Elanna floundered for a moment and flapped her hands in exasperation. “That we’ll argue. Again.”

Tom shook his head in confusion. “She’ll probably spend most of her time playing with the kids. What would you argue about?”

“Nothing,” B’Elanna muttered. “Anything.” She leaned forward and rested her head on Tom’s shoulder, and his arms tightened around her.

“It’ll be great,” he said, decided. “We’ll have fun. We’ll figure out things to do with the girls while you’re working, and we can plan some family adventures to keep us all busy when you’re not. It’ll be fine. She loves you, remember?”

“Your father loves me. And he never forces me to cite _The Tale of qeyllS and His Brother, moratlh_. Maybe we should trade parents.”

Tom’s mouth quirked. “I’m afraid we’re both stuck with both of them,” he said. “When she hears Miri recite her prayer for the dead to seven generations, I’m pretty sure your mom will be so happy she won’t even think about the _paq’raD_.” 

“Maybe,” B’Elanna grudgingly agreed. She peered over Tom’s shoulder to the empty, cold cooktop. “What’s for dinner?” 

“I was thinking _bIreQtagh_ but the kids asked for pizza.” He managed to say it with a straight face.

“They did, huh?” B’Elanna wrinkled her nose at the thought of Bregit lung… or anything else _Klingon_. “What did you two talk about?” She heard the nervous trill in her voice.

“Not much. The channel wasn’t open for long. I recommended a pub in the upper level that she should try.” He shrugged. 

“I didn't know you’d been so close to Klingon space,” B’Elanna said.

“I spent a few days on the starbase when I was right out of the Academy. I spent a memorable evening there, in the Klingon sector of the station, while I was waiting for my first ship. Or, not so memorable, actually.” He smiled. 

He was referring to the _Exeter_ , he had to be. She peered at him, concern creasing her forehead. He’d been on that ship when Caldik Prime… 

Tom snatched a cookie from the rack and pressed it against her lips. She opened them obligingly as he shoved it into her mouth, and she wondered if he was doing it to halt her flow of objections about her mother’s visit, or to preemptively stop her from asking if the space station brought up any bad memories. 

“You go round up the girls, and I’ll programme the replicator,” he suggested. 

B’Elanna shrugged off her coat and hung it on a hook by the door before she forced a smile and crossed to the living room. Miral was seated on the floor, her elbows propped on the coffee table, concentrating on a drawing that she was colouring. Crayons were scattered over the table top, and a few had rolled onto the floor. B’Elanna counted five stick figures on the paper, two small and three larger. The additional adult had dark hair and obvious Vees on the upper part of the circle that formed her face. 

“Hi, sweetheart, how was your day?” 

Miri’s head popped up from her drawing. “Mamma!” she called. Excitement rounded her eyes. “ _SoSnI’oy_ is coming to visit! She’s going to sleep in my room with me!” 

“Really?” B’Elanna asked. She smiled at her daughter’s enthusiasm as Miri bounded up from the floor and hopped toward her, clapping her hands. 

“Yes! Yes! Yes!”

“‘Es! ‘Es! ‘Essss!” 

Ella—not quite as well coordinated as her older sister—joined in, managing to slam into Miral, sending both of them spralling. B’Elanna scooped Ella up before her head connected with the coffee table. 

“Well,” she said, to the top of Miri’s dark head as her older daughter wrapped her arms around her waist and squeezed, “that’s very exciting news.” 

“Pizza!” Tom called from the kitchen doorway. 

“YAAAAY!!! _SoSnI’oy_ loves pizza!” Miral announced.

Ella squirmed to be let down, and B’Elanna released her, then caught Tom’s eyes as she straightened. “It’s true,” he said. “Everyone loves pizza.” 

“Yay,” B’Elanna replied with a sigh.

*****


	2. Chapter 2

mI’ral wandered the length of the eating section of the space station looking for the tavern that Thomas had suggested when they’d spoken earlier in the day. Her accommodation on the station was barely large enough to fit a bed, a desk, and a closet, and after five days on the small freighter that had carried her from Boreth, she felt the desire to stretch her legs. That, and the noise coming from a group of good-natured Bolians in the cabins beside and across from hers, had driven her out of her room to explore. The station didn’t appear to have a nighttime, and the wide corridor was crowded with people, the bulkheads ringing with conversation and laughter. There were maps leading to the shopping district, and signs promoting shuttle tours of the Azure Nebula, but she had had enough of sitting in a cramped ship for the time being; Klingon bodies weren’t meant to stay sedentary for long. She’d spotted several bars and restaurants promoting ethnic dishes native to various Beta and Alpha Quadrant planets, and had noticed on an interactive map of the station set up near the turbolifts that the Klingon sector was two decks below. She wasn’t hungry, but would likely eat there later, she decided.

Her son in law, Thomas Paris, had told her he’d spent a few days on the station in his youth, immediately after his graduation from Starfleet Academy, and he had spoken of his pleasure in his short visit here. It had come as no real surprise to her that he had spent an evening drinking bloodwine in the Klingon tavern with a group of older warriors; though she had only met him a few times since he and her daughter had returned from the Delta Quadrant, he possessed a Klingon heart. She could imagine him, fifteen years younger than he was now, more brash, with that heart set on adventure. 

She followed his directions, turning right at a branching corridor and continuing past a water fountain. She had wondered if perhaps the station would have changed after a decade and a half, but her initial impression once she had started to explore had put her mind at rest: she doubted it had been upgraded in the last half century. The station wasn’t dirty, but it was scuffed and dented, drab despite the brightly coloured lights that advertised various restaurants and taverns. 

The drinking hall seemed quiet compared to the ones that flanked it: no flashing sign advertising its food and drink specials, no videos of laughing customers on repeat. There was a large, dying plant near the front door, its crisped and yellowed leaves dropped to the floor in an untidy pile, and the tavern’s front window was dimmed so she could only see the shadows of customers seated at a small table. mI’ral passed through the entryway and paused, and was pleased to see that the tavern was clean and well lit inside. A long bar stretched the length of one side of the room, with a few tables and chairs scattered throughout the rest of the space.

“If you’re looking for the Klingon sector, you’re on the wrong level; it’s two decks down. If you’re not, please come in.” 

A mature woman, close in age to herself, mI’ral guessed, stood behind the bar, arms loosely crossed, one hip leaning against a tall shelf full of glassware. She bore a welcoming expression: not a smile exactly, but she wasn’t frowning at the sight of a Klingon on her threshold, either. mI’ral studied her features, shifting her mental image of the woman Thomas had described to one fifteen years older. “You are the proprietor of this tavern?” she asked. The woman nodded, and her head tilted in interest. “My son in law described you well,” mI’ral said. “He sat here,” she gestured to the end of the bar, “and drank raktajino while you warned him away from the Klingon sector.” mI’ral smiled to show that she didn’t hold it against her. 

The barkeep shook her head. “When was this?” 

“Many years ago. Before he became a man worthy of my daughter. He had just graduated from Starfleet and had much to learn.” She slipped onto a stool and propped her elbows on the bartop.

“Most of them do.” The woman’s mouth lifted in a smile. “I’ve met so many young officers, so many people passing through, but I’d think I’d remember a newly graduated… Klingon? cadet.” 

“Thomas is human,” mI’ral stated. “And my daughter is half-human.” The woman nodded again, filing the information away but not commenting on it. mI’ral wondered how many people spoke to her daily of such personal matters. How many people came through the station looking for someone to talk to, someone to assure them that their path was the right one. 

“What would you like to drink?” 

mI’ral considered this. Thomas had told her that he hadn’t enjoyed the Kingon coffee the woman had served him, though he had developed a taste for it in the decade following. 

“You look like you could use something stronger than coffee,” the woman commented. mI’ral grunted in acknowledgement. The barkeep tilted her head, then, apparently making up her mind, turned toward a shelf of bottles and selected one of clear glass containing an amber liquid. She poured it into a ceramic cup. A gaseous cloud swirled upward as soon as the liquid made contact with the air. “Are you on your way home?” the barkeep asked.

mI’ral smiled. She recognized the drink as _chechtlhutlh_. She hadn’t sampled it in years, but felt the current situation required it. “I’m headed to Earth, to visit my daughter, her husband, and my granddaughters,” she said. 

“I see.” 

The barkeep slid the cup toward her. A question flickered in her eyes but she held her tongue and waited for mI’ral to elaborate. mI’ral lifted it to her lips and took a sip, letting the strong liquid swirl around her tongue. It raced down her throat to her stomachs with a satisfyingly familiar burn. “My daughter and I… have not always fully understood each other,” she finally said. 

“Like most mothers and daughters in the universe,” the barkeep nodded. 

“She was lost to me for a long time,” mI’ral said. “When she returned four years ago, I vowed that I would not allow us to grow further apart. That I would not repeat the mistakes of my past.” 

“Her choice of husband…” the bartender began. 

“Was perhaps the best decision she’s ever made. Thomas understands the value of family, and of Klingon traditions. He is strong, proud, and devoted, not at all like some Terran _pujwI’pu’_!” interrupted mI’ral in a way that let the proprietor know that slights against any member of her House, whether by blood or by marriage, would not be tolerated.

“That’s good.” The bartender looked at mI’ral’s cup to see if she needed a refill, then poured one for herself. “A poor choice of a mate can have lasting repercussions. Of course, it can lead to new beginnings, too.” She lifted her cup and motioned toward the room in a sweeping gesture. “We all end up somewhere,” she said.

mI’ral knew what the barkeep was getting at, but had no interest in sharing _that_ part of her life. Until John Torres had made progress in healing the wounds he’d inflicted on their daughter, he was a non-entity in her life and she would not speak his name. “beylana ended up on Thomas’ homeworld. I hadn’t imagined she would settle in Klingon space, but I thought she was done with Earth long ago.” 

“Ships are faster now than they were even ten years ago,” the woman noted. “Earth isn’t that far away, if you enjoy the journey.” 

“My granddaughters are at the end of it; I will endure it gladly. She thinks I…” mI’ral paused, trying to remember the word in Federation Standard, “ _meddle_ ,” she finally said. “She believes that I interfere with how she and Thomas are raising my granddaughters.” 

The bartender’s mouth quirked. She smiled and leaned her back against the U-shaped end of the bar, angling her body so she could still talk to mI’ral comfortably. “And do you?” 

“I do not! I introduce them to the legends and tradition of their heritage! beylana has little interest in Klingon ways, and while Thomas does his best, he has never lived on Qo’noS. Therefore, it falls to me to ensure that my _puqnI’be’pu’_ grow up with the pride they’re due as daughters of the Empire.” mI’ral frowned and sat up straighter on the stool. “If they do not, they will struggle to find their place in the galaxy. They will be vulnerable to outsiders making them feel unsure, or even embarrassed of their heritage when it should be a source of fulfillment and self-respect.” She looked a challenge at the other woman, but she merely nodded. 

“Tradition is important,” she said, “especially when families are separated by half a quadrant.” 

“Agreed,” mI’ral nodded. “But my daughter… it’s as if she seeks to find the insult in every word I speak, as if she expects me to offer nothing but criticism!”

The barkeep took a small, thoughtful sip of her drink. “Do you argue?” 

“Of course we argue! We are _Klingon_!” 

The woman refilled their cups. “What do you argue about?” 

mI’ral shook her head, feeling slightly light-headed, though whether from the strong spirit or the strong emotion, she could not tell. She gripped the edge of the bartop to keep her balance. “Everything and nothing,” she declared. “The last time I visited, I simply asked if my granddaughter had begun training with a _betleH_ yet, and she reacted as if I was insulting her ability to parent her child!” mI’ral cast her a confounded look, as if no reasonable person could ever have made such an outlandish connection.

The proprietor looked at mI’ral with the sort of gleam in her eye that suggested she was thinking carefully about how to phrase her next comment. “Well, we all know that mothers can be very sensitive about their children. Tell me, why did you ask about the _betleH_ training?” 

mI’ral scoffed at the question. The proprietor may be drinking _chechtlhutlh_ , but surely she hadn’t had enough to addle her mind entirely. “Because my granddaughter must learn! And more importantly, she has asked to learn! She wants to!” 

“Well, then, why go through her mother at all?” 

Perhaps it was mI’ral that was addled by drink, because this question made no more sense than the last one had. “I do not understand what you mean.”

“I mean, instead of asking your daughter about your granddaughter’s training, why don’t you just book some time in a holodeck and bring the _betleH_ yourself?” The woman paused for a moment, but then seemed to decide that she was going to say her peace. “You said your daughter isn’t that interested in Klingon culture, and you are the closest full-Klingon relative your granddaughters have. Instead of upsetting your daughter, why don’t you just introduce them to whatever parts of their heritage you think are important for them to know, yourself?” 

mI’ral sat for a moment, stunned by the simplicity of the suggestion. She and her daughter were Klingons, so arguments were inevitable. But, she realized, they could move on to healthier, less destructive arguments. beylana did not want to feel that her mother was questioning her parenting, fine: mI’ral could accept and even admire that. But that did not mean her granddaughters would have to be deprived of the beauty and richness of the Klingon traditions. By choosing her battles more carefully and wisely, mI’ral would see to it that the Klingon parts of their souls would not suffer. 

Having made her decision, mI’ral drained the rest of her _chechtlhutlh_ and set the cup down firmly on the bar. She wobbled only slightly as she got to her feet. “Thank you, _qaH_ , for listening to my troubles. Now, tell me the fastest way to get to the Klingon sector. I have some shopping to do.”

*** 


	3. Chapter 3

The gift for her namesake, wrapped securely and tucked under her arm, was smaller and lighter than she’d imagined it would be, but there was a solidity to it nonetheless, a permanence and _rightness_ that had nothing to do with its physical form. She had found the armoury shop easily, and chosen a blade that was simple in design and blunted to prevent injury, but also well balanced, with a haft that was slim enough for a child’s hand. The first lesson she would teach her _puqnI’be’_ would be the legend of the _qeylIS_ family sword to ensure that Miral respected the _ghojmeH taj_. Practice would come later. She knew what beylana would say about it, but didn’t let that dampen her resolve: now was the time to teach Miral these things, before she started her schooling with a classroom full of Human children. If she had listened to her instincts instead of bowing to her former husband’s wishes concerning their child, if she had taught beylana the way a fully Klingon child was instructed… 

It was too late to change the mistakes of the past, but she could ensure that they weren’t repeated. And Thomas would support her, she was sure. He would encourage his children to explore their Klingon heritage, and likely share their delight in the discoveries they would make. 

mI’ral realized that she was hungry and retraced her steps, hoping to find a quiet restaurant. She had many things to think about, not least of which being when she would inform her daughter that she had purchased the _ghojmeH taj_ for Miral. If beylana were unwilling to tutor the child in the forms of _moQbara’_ , perhaps Thomas could devise a holodeck programme that she could use. 

A shop window caught her eye. Two mannequins in warrior’s leathers stood to one side, but it was a long, red dress on a female mannequin that held her attention. Made of a soft, thin red leather, the dress reached the mannequin’s boots and pooled on the floor. It was paired with long, tightly cuffed sleeves of deep red _mIl’oD_ fur, and trimmed with golden metal studs. Its belt likely concealed a stiletto blade. It could be used as a wedding dress, she thought, or for another high ceremonial occasion. If beylana objected to the choice of a gift for her young daughter, how would she react to mI’ral arriving in such a costume? She laughed at the thought. 

She continued past the clothing shop and found the restaurant easily. The sound of conversation spilled out of it, and screens flanking its entryway advertised dishes on offer. mI’ral perused the menu. She was tempted by the _Qa’Da_ legs, but only if the _gha’poq_ sauce was fresh. 

A loud screech startled her and she stiffened, turning toward the sound. The space beside the restaurant was occupied by a shop. In the window perched a large bird, its feathers a riotous display of iridescent blues and greens, punctuated by a shockingly bright red. She had previously only seen a _parbIng_ in pictures, and the sight of the impressive predator transfixed her. It’s bright, dark eyes focused on her, and it clicked its beak in a menacing fashion. Its vocalization—something between a trill and a growl—came through the window. It extended a leg, toes spread wide displaying its sharp claws, and shuffled toward her along a perch that extended the width of its enclosure. 

The bird fluffed its wings, and mI’ral smiled in approval. “You are a splendid creature,” she said.

“As are you.” 

mI’ral glanced from the bird to a man standing just inside the shop. He cut an impressive figure, dressed throat to toe in unadorned dark brown leather. He reached into a pocket and pulled out something too small for her to make out, then tossed it toward the bird. Whatever it was—a rodent of some sort, mI’ral assumed—was snatched out of the air, the bird’s large, serrated beak snapping shut with a _clack_. It tilted its head, and appeared to swallow the morsel whole. It focused its attention on her again, ignoring the man who had just fed it. 

“She sees you as a rival for my affection,” he observed. “She is correct.” His mouth split into a wide grin. 

“My daughter’s husband told me about your _parbIng_. I assumed he was exaggerating.” As if she heard the compliment, the bird stretched her wings, showing the full range of her glorious wings and the vibrant feathers that generously adorned them. She looked almost regal as she displayed her intimidating size. Her wings from tip to tip spanned at least two meters, and seemed to warn the observer that if she ever had reason to chase them, the hunt would be brief. 

“She doesn’t need boasting; she is magnificent enough.” The shopkeeper’s pride in the _parbIng_ was obvious, and clearly justified. mI’ral knew well that one did not keep such a creature as a pet. One earned its respect, and then lived with it in harmony. Clearly this man understood animals, and the unique companionship they could share with humanoids. 

“Well, I see now why he was so taken with her, and still remembers her clearly after all these years. That, and the baby _targh_ that liked him enough to soak his slacks in urine,” she added.

The man’s booming laughter fairly echoed off of the corridor walls outside his shop. 

“He speaks fondly of your shop,” mI’ral continued. “He bought a child’s toy: a _targh toboy_ , that he later gave to my daughter. I believe she still has it. And of course, he ensured that Toby Two and Toby Three were among their daughters’ first toys.” mI’ral smiled at the memory of the first time she met Miral. She had been snuggled in her crib, with Toby Two watching over her protectively. The clear disgruntlement in beylana’s voice, and the thinly-veiled pride in Thomas’ eyes, as she had described how he had insisted that only a Klingon toy would do had convinced mI’ral that her son in law deserved a fair chance to prove himself as a worthy mate to her daughter and capable father to her grandchildren. 

To his credit, the man’s expression didn’t so much as flicker when he realized that mI’ral’s daughter had married a Human. “I remember him. He couldn’t hold his bloodwine, though his effort was valiant. He even braved my tribble, and tried to convince me to sell it when he feared that it would soon be _parbIng_ food.” He threw her a look rife with suppressed laughter. His meaning was clear: only a Terran could confuse a tribble with a snack. No self-respecting Klingon would ever try to feed such a terror to a bird of prey. And moreover, no bird of prey would ever eat one. It would much sooner punish the feeder for trying to serve it such filth.

“Well, since Tobys Two and Three are already in residence, instead of a _targh_ , perhaps they would prefer a _chuSwI’_.” He plucked the toy rodent from the basket and squeezed. As well as making the toy emit a loud, wheezy squeak, the action made the creature’s ears unfurl and its eyes pop out of its sockets. His booming laugh bounced off the aquariums and cages, and mI’ral couldn’t help but laugh with him as she imagined beylana’s response to such a gift. “At no charge, of course. It’s not very often that my shop is graced with such a glorious Klingon woman.”

mI’ral snorted—even for a Klingon, he was laying it on a little thick. But she found she enjoyed his attempts to start a harmless flirtation. Perhaps later she would allow him to take her to dinner. But first, she had a mission to accomplish. “Whatever I take from here, I will pay for. And I will take one _chuSwI’_ , for my younger granddaughter, Ella. Perhaps Miral would enjoy something more interactive, however. You will show me all of the options, both inanimate and living, and then I will make my decision.” 

The man’s eyes gleamed. He was clearly excited at the prospect of spending more time with her, and mI’ral hoped that meant that her tour would be thorough. Since she had taken it on herself to choose a pet for her granddaughter, she was determined that her decision would be the right one. 

“Well then, let us start here,” the handsome shopkeeper suggested, waving his arm to indicate the elaborately designed enclosure just to mI’ral’s right. It contained a cozy looking hutch situated at the back of an impressive replica of outdoor space in the more verdant parts of Qo’noS. The hutch was divided into two levels, the ground floor looked to be a miniature playground, with an exercise wheel, toys scattered about, and a labyrinthine climbing structure that stretched from one side to the other, and from the ground to the ceiling. The second floor was more fully enclosed, but seemed to contain several sleeping bays. Some were filled with a straw-like nesting material, others with crumpled up blankets, and one even looked to be lined with feathers of some sort. 

Throughout the enclosure, several _cheSmey_ were going about their day. Somewhat similar to Terran rabbits, only with larger ears, larger paws, and sharper teeth, they were seemingly oblivious to their observers. One _cheS_ munched quietly on greenery, while another used the exercise wheel to swing lazily from side to side, and a third played with a ball by rolling it around the perimeter of the enclosure. mI’ral remembered _cheSmey_ from her childhood on Qo’noS fondly. Her cousin had had one when they were children, and, except for the time they’d tried to dress it in a miniature Defense Force uniform, it had been a friendly and lively companion. Perhaps Miral would enjoy a _cheS_ of her own? It was worth considering. 

The shopkeeper seemed to recognize that mI’ral was not interested in his impressive variety of insects native to Qo’noS, so they passed those by on their way to his next stop, the aviary. They stepped into the deceptively large structure, and were greeted by a cacophony of sounds from curious birds perched throughout the space. “Most of the birds here are not suitable for children, as they require daily aggression training and experienced handling. Others are probably not appropriate for children until they’ve had their venom sacs removed.” mI’ral chuffed at his use of the word “probably” when referring to venom sacs, but did not interrupt as he seemed to narrow in on birds that might suit her purposes. 

“Now here is an option,” he said, pointing to a small but colorful _cha’qu’_ that was resting on a perch and semi-concealed by the lush fern nearby. About twice the size of mI’ral’s hand, it looked surprisingly intelligent and aware of its surroundings. As she approached it, the bird seemed to notice her interest, and immediately began to seek her attention, first, by shuffling over to its food container and tossing seeds and nuts around to show her how abundant its resources were, and second, by emitting a repetitive, ear-splitting cry that was apparently its default vocalization. This bird would certainly be an engaging and interactive companion, it seemed, but it would also be a very loud one, and mI’ral doubted that beylana would appreciate such a significant disruption to the calm, orderly environments she preferred. Still, mI’ral added the charming screamer to her mental list of options. 

Next, they moved to a contained section of the shop that had environmental controls set very differently from the rest. It was warm, dark, and _very_ humid. A sweet, grassy scent seemed to permeate the mist that filled the air, and mI’ral could hear faint chirps and croaks from every corner of the enclosure. “Now, if you want a pet that advertises its Klingon heritage, you can do no better than a _ghargh_ ” he proclaimed with just a hint of a challenge in his voice. 

Well, he was right about that. mI’ral looked at the serpent. Not quite a snake, not quite a miniature dragon, the _ghargh_ certainly looked like it had come straight from Qo’noS. Of course the irony was that, for this particular species, its ferocious looks hid a surprisingly mild temperament. If her parents could build and maintain a suitable habitat that would keep his scales moist and his blood warm, he could be an excellent, and unique, friend to Miral. “It is worth considering,” she acknowledged. 

As the shopkeeper led the way out of the _ghargh_ enclosure, he directed mI’ral’s gaze to a darkly lit door at the back of the store, with an ominous looking sign above it. Thanks to the bold red letters and a richly pigmented black background, mI’ral could easily read its messsge: _vay’ DaneHbogh yIchargh._ , “Conquer what you desire”. This must be a room he used to test the mettle of young warriors with more confidence than experience. 

He gave her a slight but knowing smile. “I suppose we can skip the tribble room. Clearly a warrior such as yourself has no need to test her courage.” 

mI’ral shot back an answering smile, pleased with the challenge he’d devised for warriors whose untapped potential required honing. “And clearly you have no desire to taste my blade. You must be more intelligent than you look.” This time, the laughter that filled the room came from both of them. 

He swept her into the last major area of the shop. “And of course, there is always the classic Klingon child’s pet,” he announced, with no small bit of pride in what were secretly his favorite of the mammalian residents in his shop. 

mI’ral was entranced. The enclosure was huge. In the front was a fenced off exercise area with an oval track that had been worn into the grass by what must have been hundreds of races. In the back was a miniature barn, lined at the ceiling with red heat lamps, and on the floor with straw. In between the two was a grazing garden stuffed full with a wide variety of vegetables and edible flowers, and off to the side there was a clearly well-used and well-loved mud pit. But most endearing of all, everywhere she looked, there was a targlet. Some of them were racing around the track, their hooves engraving the path even more deeply into the ground below them. Some of them were snacking in the garden, and some were wrestling, or even just luxuriating, in the mud. 

“Beautiful, aren’t they? he asked. “These targlets will grow into the perfect examples of what a targ should be. In fact, this litter descends from the targ that peed on your son in law. She is their mother.” 

mI’ral quirked an amused smile at the proprietor. “A noble bloodline, then.” 

“Impeccable,” he grinned back. “Of course, there are challenges with a targ. They require a lot of time and attention, they can be somewhat difficult to house train, and there are very few of them on the Terran homeworld.” 

He was right, of course. A targlet may be a charming and even delightful little creature, but it was not what anyone would call an easy or low-maintenance pet, especially when it grew to full size. And of course while she knew that showing up with any pet would provoke a reaction from beylana, bringing Miral a targlet would be like initiating an uncontained matter-antimatter reaction. She would not dismiss the idea out of hand, of course, but nor could she ignore the many reasons a targ would be impractical. 

Having finished their tour, he guided her back to the front of the shop and the enclosure that had been their first stop. “As she is part human, l suggest a _cheS_ ,” he said, reaching into the container and lifting a little ball of fluff with impossibly large ears to hold it against his chest. “It is soft, cute, and, as long as the teeth are ground down regularly, will be unable to harm her.” As he spoke, he softly scratched behind one of its floppy ears, and the creature let out a contented rumble. “It will also be interested in your granddaughter’s pursuits, and very interactive, as you requested.”

mI’ral considered the shopkeeper's point. The _cheS_ certainly was the most similar to a Terran pet, and the one that would likely provoke the least resistance from beylana. It would also be an engaging companion, and, most importantly, a reason for Miral to take pride and joy in her Klingon heritage. She swept her gaze through the shop one last time, to ensure that she was considering all of her options thoroughly. Her attention lingered briefly on the stunning _parbIng_ at the front of the shop, but she did not allow it to distract her from her task. She didn’t so much as glance at the tribble room as she contemplated her options, though she did reach out a tentative hand to give the _cheS_ a quick pet. Eventually, the rightness of her decision settled around her. “Very good. I have made my choice. Now, we must discuss the supplies my _puqnI’be’_ will need, and then you will arrange to have everything delivered to my accommodation and instruct me about the proper way to handle transport.”


	4. Chapter 4

All of B’Elanna’s plans to greet her mother warmly and, above all, calmly, flew out the airlock the instant she stepped into her backyard. As if a day spent talking terrified cadets out of dropping out because of one bad midterm hadn’t been chaotic enough, now she was coming home to….this?! “Mother! What have you done?!” B’Elanna roared before she had even taken full stock of the scene. 

There was a targ. A tiny, growly, snuffly, stinky targ. And it was currently chasing her daughter as fast as the little quarter-Klingon’s legs could carry her, only to snort with joy and flop on its back in a blatant bid for tummy rubs every time it “caught” her. Miral was using the lone, large pine tree as cover, darting from one side to the other and letting out a delighted screech every time she fooled the little creature into turning the wrong way. After a particularly successful evasion, Ella, who was happily observing the festivities from the safety of her dad’s arms, suddenly decided that she wanted to play this game, and began wildly flapping her chubby arms at the top-heavy, barrel-chested animal and squealing at the top of her lungs. “‘Arg! ‘Arg! Dada _‘arg!_.” Miral was all too pleased to include her little sister in the revelry, and so Tom’s legs quickly became the focal point of the chase. Fortunately, his dad reflexes were well honed, so every time Ella tried to dive head first into the fray, he shifted his arms to arrest her fall, and rewarded her enthusiasm with a particularly noisy kiss—first on her nose, then on her rounded tummy, and then finally, much to her amusement, on the bottom of her constantly swinging foot.

B’Elanna’s mother, inspiration for her _puqnI’be’_ ’s name and born-again trouble maker, was leaning against the gently scalloped picket fence—an old earth tradition that Tom had insisted was necessary to “make things homier”—and looking far too unconcerned about whether an epic row was about to erupt. This did not bode well. 

B’Elanna tried to plan out her argument as she stalked towards the full-Klingon who was looking ever so pleased with herself, but couldn’t think clearly enough to formulate a coherent plan. She stopped on the well worn brick path that led from the back door to the gate, about a meter from the row of white and yellow gardenias that lined the fence. She determinedly did _not_ cross her arms, but couldn’t resist the huff of impatience that crossed her lips and briefly sent a lock of her hair flying straight up and away from her face. “A targ, Mother? You brought her _a targ_?”

mI’ral straightened up from the fence, her smile radiating satisfaction and clearly indicating that she was looking forward to hashing this out. “I did. I have also brought his supplies. There is food, a crate, brushes for his body and mane, claw covers, and a horn grinder. And of course an assortment of toys and blankets for him to enjoy. I will provide replacements when any of these supplies run out, along with anything else you need for his care. I have also located a veterinarian who specializes in off-world pets. He will be no trouble.” 

Of course, just as the words “no trouble” passed mI’ral’s lips, the chaos and noise increased, and not by a little bit. “Oh no! Be careful!” wailed Miral as the targlet took a head over hoofs tumble into Tom’s favorite chrysanthemum bush. The intrepid four-year old went charging in after her newest pet, and then made quite a display of checking him over for any scrapes or scratches that might have resulted from his fall. 

B’Elanna took advantage of the momentary lull in the action to throw one heck of a ‘we will discuss this later’ glare at her husband, but he just looked back at her with studied innocence, as if saying “what could I do? The ladies had me outnumbered three-to-one!” and then returned his delighted gaze back to Miral and her targ, who had recovered from their little scare, and resumed their joint slapstick routine by darting from one side of the yard to the other at a breakneck pace. Fortunately, they were managing to catch themselves each time they stumbled and nearly face-planted into one cluster of flowers or another.

“Mother! We cannot have a targ. We already have a three-legged cat, a one-eared bunny, and a bird who hasn’t left our backyard since Miral nursed it back to health when it was just a chick!” B’Elanna was about to add that their little family already had enough trouble finding time for the prayer for the dead every day, but stopped herself just in time. Pointing out that the Klingon side of their heritage sometimes had to give way to the pressures of their schedule was definitely _not_ the way to convince her mother that a targ was an unnecessary addition to their already full house.

Her mother, of course, looked entirely unconcerned. “Well then, what is one more pet? My granddaughter needs a targ”, she stated plainly, as if any Vulcan would applaud the phaser-proof logic of her argument. Miral is part-Klingon, therefore she needs a targ, just as, because she is Klingon, she requires food to eat and air to breathe. “The cat and the bunny stay indoors, yes? And the bird may be an enjoyable diversion, but it cannot join her on her adventures. Miral requires a targ that will be by her side always, that will discover exciting new places with her, and see her safely home.”

“Mother! Adventures?” 

mI’ral looked straight at B’Elanna, and for the first time something approaching gravity entered her voice. “Yes, lana, adventures. She is part-Klingon. Therefore there will be many adventures, and it is important that they be the right ones. Klingon children do not know fear, which makes them highly capable, but also vulnerable. She will learn to evaluate risk more quickly and carefully with her targ at her side. She will take her own safety more seriously if his is tied to it.”

B’Elanna could feel her determination to win this argument wavering, and Miral’s delighted “Mamma look! It’s a _targ_!” did nothing to fortify it. Still, she had to at least try. “But, we live on earth. What will her schoolmates think? What if they make fun of her for being the only girl with a targ?” B’Elanna liked to think that she’d moved past the scars of her childhood as the local bullies’ favorite target, but she’d see ghe’tor before she’d allow the same thing to happen to one of her children, no matter what it took to prevent it. 

“Then we will train the targ to attack on command and pay them a visit.” 

“Mother!” B’Elanna didn’t think mI’ral was serious, but one could never be too careful when a Klingon blithely tosses out the idea that a physical confrontation is the easiest, most straightforward way to solve a problem. Even when they were right, B’Elanna knew all too well that Humans never reacted well to such an approach. 

“They will not judge her for her pet, beylana. And if she does encounter such small-minded bigotry, better that she do it with her targ at her side, and at a young enough age for her mother to educate the offenders using the edge of her _Daqtagh_. One of my greatest regrets is that I failed to see how you suffered on Kessik, daughter. I know with absolute certainty that neither my _puqnI’be’_ ’s parents nor her targ will allow such a tragedy to be repeated. Just the opposite.” 

B’Elanna could tell she was on the losing side of this argument, so in one last ditch effort to forestall the years and years of noise and chaos that were coming her family’s way, looked to her husband to see if he had any ideas. Of course, Tom ended up being no help. “I think Buster fits right in”, he said as he ambled over, shifting Ella to his hip, but careful to keep her high enough off the ground that she wouldn’t take any accidental hits from the twin missiles that were streaking around the backyard, kicking up little pellets of shorn grass and raised dirt in their wake.

“She named him Buster?” B’Elanna asked, her voice suddenly breathless as the implications of her daughter’s choice sank in. 

“Yep,” Tom smiled at her, his eyes warming when he saw that she knew exactly what kind of significance that name carried. Apparently, Miral had decided that the targ was her loyal sidekick, that together they would defend the galaxy from anything that might threaten it, and that they would be true to each other in everything they did. B’Elanna was cornered, and she knew it.

“Well,” she sighed, taking one last glance at Miral and Buster, who, having finally tired themselves out, were sprawled on their backs in the remnants of what was at one time a neat pile of fall leaves, breathing heavily and looking as if they’d found the secret to peace and contentment in the sunbeam they were currently basking in. “I suppose if Miral has fallen in love, then….we can have a targ.” 

Tom beamed at her with one of his full-wattage smiles that fairly radiated joy, and then leaned down to kiss her softly on the lips. “She really does, B’Elanna. Love him, that is.” 

B’Elanna scrunched her nose and sent him a long-suffering, but resigned, look. Well, at least we already have his supplies, she thought, in an effort to comfort herself. 

“Excellent!” boomed mI’ral, looking deeply satisfied and pleased in the unique way that only Klingons can. “This is excellent. Thomas, you will start on my granddaughter’s chapter of Captain Proton Jr. that features our fearless hero and her beloved targ immediately, yes? And just think. In a few years when it is time for Ella to have a targ of her own, all four of them can be friends!”

***


	5. Chapter 5

B’Elanna shushed Ella as she gently pushed her out of her spot in the bed, toward the centre. She settled beside her, elbow on the mattress, her head propped in her hand, then reached over and brushed Ella’s dark gold curls from her forehead and placed a soft kiss between her eyebrows. The baby gave a quiet snore and B’Elanna froze, hoping she hadn’t just woken her. It had been a battle worthy of song to get the girls to settle down and sleep, but eventually they’d simply worn themselves out from the day’s excitement. 

Buster, it was decided, was an _inside_ pet. She’d known he would be as soon as she’d seen him chasing Miri around the backyard. She’d had a faint hope that she could talk Tom and her mother into assembling a shelter for him in the corner of the yard—where the rabbit hutch was _supposed_ to have gone—but her heart wasn’t in it, and she’d given in to Miri’s pleading and her mother’s reasoning that the targlet and Miral needed to be together in order to bond. Tom had promised to clean up any ‘containment breaches’. 

She’d lost the same argument about Lonzak, their cat, and the rabbit, too. Rabbits were delicate creatures anyway, and B’Elanna wondered how well it would fare with the added noise and confusion provided by having Buster in the house. Constance was housed in the living room, and B’Elanna had been adamant that Buster’s sleeping crate was going to stay in the kitchen, at least until she could figure out a better spot for it. Miri hadn’t been happy about that decision; she’d expected him to sleep in her bed. She’d acquiesced when B’Elanna reminded her that he wasn’t house trained yet. mI’ral had been about to argue, but B’Elanna had been firm. 

After all, Buster had appeared content in his crate with a soft blanket, a cuddle toy, and a nightlight... for about thirty seconds. His loud, high-pitched, heart-breaking squeals at finding himself alone and abandoned, not to mention Miri’s sudden tears and the fear that their cries would wake a finally-asleep Ella, had made B’Elanna relent pretty quickly. He was now happily ensconced—inside his crate—in Miral and Ella’s room. 

At least she hoped he was in his crate. If he wasn’t, she didn’t want to know. 

Tom walked into the bedroom dressed in his bathrobe, water dripping from his damp hair onto the robe’s collar. 

“Is Miral finally settled?” she asked quietly.

“Yeah, I think so.” 

“Did she feed Constance?” 

“Ella and I gave her a carrot and some kibble,” Tom answered. He tossed his robe onto a chair then climbed into bed. Ella had flung one leg wide and he gently eased it back toward its mate. He reached beyond the sleeping toddler and cupped B’Elanna’s hip. “You’re so far away,” he noted. “We’ll bring her crib in first thing in the morning.” 

B’Elanna frowned. “Don’t smile at me like that, Tom Paris,” she grumbled. 

“What?” he asked. His expression was a picture of innocence. 

“And don’t ‘what’ me, either. This was your idea wasn’t it?” 

He frowned, confused. “What was my idea?”

“This. All of it,” she insisted. “The targ. Admit it, you were in on it with her from the beginning.” 

“Her?” he asked.

“My mother,” B’Elanna hissed. 

Tom’s eyebrows drew together at the accusation; he looked wounded. “B’Elanna,” he cajoled, “Buster isn’t a conspiracy, he’s a _sidekick_.” 

She snorted in reply. 

“When your mom said she had a layover on Starbase 234 I may have mentioned that there was a Klingon pet shop there,” Tom explained. “But I thought she’d get the girls a stuffed _bolmaq_ , not a live targ.” At her raised eyebrow, he added, “There’s one in Miral’s _Big Book of Klingon Animals_ colouring book.”

He looked so damned sincere. She was destined to live with noise for the next fifteen or twenty years, she realized. Noise and confusion and— 

Ella rolled toward her father, and they both hushed again. Tom’s gaze moved from his sleeping daughter, back to his wife. After a moment, he whispered, “I was kind of hoping we’d—” 

“With my mother next door?” she scoffed. 

“She can’t hear a thing,” he said. On cue, there was a thump and a squeal from the adjoining room. They both stared at the wall, but there was no more noise.

Tom’s thumb was tracing a warm, tingling circle on her hip, and there was a look in his eyes that she recognized. She glanced at Ella, then at the chair where Tom had tossed his robe. Maybe if they moved it away from the shared wall… Of course, there was always the sonic shower.

“You know,” he said, his voice doing funny things to her tummy, “I’m pretty sure your mother doesn’t think we found the kids in a _peb’ot_ patch.” 

He eased himself off of his side of the bed, and she did the same, making sure to tuck the covers around Ella before she straightened. He smiled _that_ smile at her again, but this time she smiled back. 

***

Something tickled her nose. She frowned, turning her head to get away from the whatever-it-was, but suddenly she felt a small, warm, slightly damp _something else_ poke at her eyelid. She cracked open the other eye to see Ella’s sweet face taking up almost her entire field of vision. 

“Mamma wake up?” she asked. 

“I’m awake now,” B’Elanna confirmed. She shoved Toby-Tee (Ella was still having problems pronouncing her Hs and Rs) out of her face and Ella launched herself against her chest. B’Elanna jerked her chin up and out of the way just in time to avoid a painful collision with the little girl’s cranial ridges. 

Ella snuggled closer, her little arms going around her mother’s shoulders, and B’Elanna wrapped an arm around her then tightened her stomach muscles and sat up in the bed. “I guess daddy’s already up,” she said. Tom’s side of the bed was empty. She grabbed Toby-Tee from the pile of blankets, then handed him to Ella, who hugged him tightly against her chest. 

“Come on, let’s go find everyone,” B’Elanna said. 

The house wasn’t as raucous as she’d imagined it would be last night. She’d envisioned her mother and Tom in some sort of conversation while Tom made breakfast (hopefully something dead and cooked). Lonzak hissing and _mrrring_ while Buster chased her around the house and Miri and Ella chased the targlet, laughing and screeching the whole while. 

It wasn’t _quiet_ exactly, but it wasn’t noisy either. Maybe her mother had taken Miri and Buster out into the yard so he could do his business. She walked down the hallway and crossed into the living room, still carrying a cuddly Ella. She was a high-energy child, and she didn’t walk early so much as _run_ … But this morning, she had her arms around B’Elanna’s neck with her head snuggled onto her shoulder, and her warm, moist breath puffed against her collarbone. 

The living room looked normal. Constance poked her nose up from her lettuce leaf and sniffed the air. The scent of coffee pulled B’Elanna toward the kitchen. 

The kitchen was… not quite normal. She noticed the white sheets of fabric on the floor immediately. One appeared to have been flipped upside down, light from the kitchen overhead lighting bouncing off a shiny surface. She glanced toward the table where her mother and Miri were seated, then at Tom who was standing in front of the replicator. He turned his head and smiled at her, but offered no explanation for the fabric on the floor. 

He turned back toward the replicator. “Four orders of battertoast and a bowl of _tlhImqaH_ ,” he requested. Light shimmered and, one by one, the plates materialized. Tom lifted them from the tray and handed them to his mother in law, who placed them on the table. Battertoast was similar to french toast but less sweet, and considerably more… umani in flavour. But, as Klingon dishes went, it was less extreme by Human standards than most. Miri bounced in her chair, anticipating her breakfast, and B’Elanna bent down and placed a well-timed kiss on the top of her head. She smiled at her mother. 

“Are you working today?” Tom asked, handing her a plate of battertoast. She passed it on to mI’ral.

“I have office hours at eleven but I was planning to go in earlier to grade papers,” B’Elanna nodded. “What are those?” she asked, pointing at the white things on the floor.

“Puppy pads,” Tom said reasonably, lifting a bowl of deep brown fruit from the replicator. 

“Puppy whats?” Dear lord, they weren’t adding a dog to the menagerie, were they?! “And where’s Buster, any—”

Several things seemed to happen at once.

Lonzak chose that moment to wander into the kitchen, mewling, demanding her own breakfast. Buster barrelled out from under the table squealing and chuffing, his hooves making a clacking sound. Lonnie reared back onto his lone hind leg hissing and spitting, her fur standing on end. For a short-haired cat, her fluffed tail made an impressive sight, B’Elanna thought. She hopped backwards, eyes round and claws extended, then her front paws hit the floor and she skittered back around, her rear leg slipping out from under her and sliding sideways, digging gouges into the polished wood floor. It didn’t appear to slow her down as she shot out of the kitchen, with Buster on her heels. 

The puppy pads scattered. 

Miri screamed and whirled around on her chair, but mI’ral caught the back of it before it could topple over. Ella’s head popped up from B’Elanna’s shoulder and she clapped her hands and squirmed, wanting to be put down. Like that was going to happen! Tom dropped the bowl of fruit on the table and reached Buster in two long strides. He scooped up the squirming targlet and held him firmly against his chest. Buster kicked a few times, then seemed to settle, but he didn’t stop squealing. 

Ella screeched back. 

Buster snorted, then squealed again, this time about half an octave higher than where he’d started. 

Ella answered him, matching his pitch, and making quite an effort to match his volume.

Buster replied, followed by both Ella and laughing Miri who had slipped off her chair and bounced over to her father. 

B’Elanna’s teeth practically rattled from the volume. Her mother started to laugh, too, in that loud, full-bodied, infectious way that Klingons do. B’Elanna caught the humour in Tom’s eyes and gave in, laughing right along with them. Spurred by her audience, Ella shrieked again, and Buster squealed in reply. Before long, their call and response escalated into a full blown screaming contest, with the little targlet doing its best to make up for the fact that it was outnumbered two-to-one. 

Watching with a combination of delight and horror as her children demonstrated just what two daughters of the Empire can achieve when they work together, B’Elanna had two thoughts nearly simultaneously: That her last quiet morning for the foreseeable future was already behind her, and that in at least one thing her mom had been right all along—there is such a thing as happy noise, and there can be joy in screaming Klingon voices. 

****

End note: There’s a video on youtube of a baby and a goat screaching at each other, matching pitch & volume. We _had_ to include it in the story! 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=402GHupS4rY


End file.
